


Too dead for dreaming

by Builder



Series: Spiderverse [28]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mission Fic, POV Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 18:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16101176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Peter’s a normal kid.  Avengers be damned.  He should be worrying about homework and movie dates.  International politics should be something he sees on TV, not unfolding in violence right before his eyes.  If he even chooses to care about the news.Peter is the type to care, though.  It takes him a tick above his classmates.  He’s quiet kid at the back of the gym who only pretends to roll his eyes when the instructional video ends.  He doesn’t need Captain America to talk to him about integrity; he already has it.  At this moment, he has more than Steve does.





	Too dead for dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt from Tumblr. Find me @builder051

The kid’s as good as frozen as the team files back onto the jet.  They’re all relieved to be leaving the scene.  They won, but it’s the kind of victory that leaves enough carnage behind to still feel like a loss.  The fact that the city hall building still stands at the end of the block in nowhereville, Pennsylvania doesn’t mean a lot when you’ve watched a woman bleed out on the sidewalk beside you.  Especially when your webs caught all the bullets in the round except that one.

Steve watches as Peter walks up to a window seat and stops.  His glazed eyes fix on the little care package the flight crew left on the chair.  The kid sorely needs a bottle of water and a protein bar, but he seems incapable of even moving the insulated bag so he can sit down.

Tony comes up behind the kid and puts a hand on his shoulder.  It’s meant to be a comforting gesture, but Peter sags under its weight.  His shoulders hunch forward, and his knees start to buckle.  The stumble seems to bring him to his senses.  Peter sits, and Tony continues to stand over him for a moment, his mouth slightly open.

Steve’s been on the receiving end of exchanges like that before.  His own father lovingly roughing him up a little, either too optimistic or too oblivious about his son’s state of health.  He fully understands why Tony lets out a quiet sigh and turns to take his own seat across the aisle.  Steve feels a little bad for his own father too.

The jet prepares for takeoff, and the automated voice over the intercom tells the team to fasten their seatbelts.  Peter stays stiff.  He doesn’t even move his head to subconsciously look for the disembodied speaker.  Even the team members who have grown up with technology still have the instinct.

Steve gets to his feet.  He changes rows in two steps and slides into the seat beside Peter.  “Hey,” Steve whispers.  He secures his seatbelt, then reaches to help the kid.  “Just gonna buckle you in, ok?”

Peter blinks.  Exhales.  Steve takes it as a positive that the kid doesn’t protest.  But then he swipes his fist under his eye and mutters, “What’s the point?”

Peter’s voice is so quiet that his tone’s hard to pin down.  There isn’t outright anger.  Maybe a hint of petulance, but no fire.  Sadness, but no tears.  The kid sounds hopeless.

No matter what Steve says, it’s not going to be what Peter wants to hear.  Steve’s supposed to be good at reaching people.  His stint as the star-spangled man with a plan gave Steve a memory bank full of one-liners meant to incite pep and enthusiasm.  America’s public schools seem to think people will still listen to him, that they’ll come out on the other end of a 15-minute video with renewed motivation to be good citizens.  But high schoolers are tough customers, and the videos are bullshit.  Even Steve knows that.

Peter moves his jaw around.  He presses his lips together.  The kid’s whole face is trembling a little.  He gives Steve a microscopic glance, then drops his eyes back to his lap.

Too much time has passed.  Steve’s blown his chance to give a meaningful response.  Anything he does now is going to seem calculated and desperate.  Which it will be anyway, but he’d held onto a shred of hope that Peter wouldn’t notice.

But who’s he kidding?  Peter’s fifteen.  Adult enough to want to stay out till midnight, but too nervous to open the door to pay the pizza man.  His world revolves around video games and science tests.  He trusts his teachers and his mentors.  He doesn’t want them to lie to him, and he can tell when they do.

Peter’s a normal kid.  Avengers be damned.  He should be worrying about homework and movie dates.  International politics should be something he sees on TV, not unfolding in violence right before his eyes.  If he even chooses to care about the news.

Peter is the type to care, though.  It takes him a tick above his classmates.  He’s quiet kid at the back of the gym who only pretends to roll his eyes when the instructional video ends.  He doesn’t need Captain America to talk to him about integrity; he already has it.  At this moment, he has more than Steve does.

Steve sighs.  It’s the same sound Tony made.  He’s in the same place now, caught between a lie and a let-down.  “There isn’t one,” Steve finally says.  “Seatbelts are just some kind of required standard.”  SHIELD’s aircraft are too smooth to need the restraints.  They even have stabilizers specifically for aerial combat.

It’s yet another thing that separates them from mere mortals, the people who ride on clunky commercial planes, who don’t have body armor to protect them from random acts of violence.  Steve regrets steering the conversation that way, but instead of feeling guilt, he’s washed in relief when the tear rolls down Peter’s cheek.

“I just…” the kid breathes.  “I never…”  He shakes his head, the motion slight at first, then rapid, as if he’s jostling his thoughts into focus.  Or maybe out of focus.  “I fucked up.”

Steve doesn’t hear the curse, or even the sentence.  He zeros in on the hitch in Peter’s voice and the sobs visibly swelling in his chest.  The dam is breaking, and Steve has to let it.  The best he can do is hold on and weather the flood.

“No,” Steve says, as gently and firmly as he can.  “You didn’t.”  He lays his palm flat over Peter’s forearm.  Flecks of dried blood crust the fabric of his suit.  Most people probably couldn’t distinguish them from the crimson material, but Steve can.  He knows Peter can too.  “You didn’t.”

“But I…” Peter gasps.  “There was one.  I missed one.”

There’s no way to mitigate it.  Missing one quiz question is still a good grade.  On the boardroom side of war, passes and failures are measured in much the same way: kill statistics organized as rights versus wrongs, friends versus foes.  But it doesn’t look that way to the soldiers on the ground.  Steve was too wrapped up in determination to find Bucky to remember the first time he’d fought with intent to kill, but he’s heard a lot of stories.  All of them have the same core.  Reality sets in with a rush of unfeelable feelings that turn primal and make people fight and flee and throw up.

“One.  I missed one,” Peter repeats on the gust of an exhale.  His breath’s coming unevenly.  Steve doesn’t want to tell the kid to calm down, but he’s going to hyperventilate.

“Peter, listen to me,” he starts.

“One.  I… _one_.”  Peter’s throat works.  His chin drops to his chest; his muscles go taught.

“Pete?”

The first gag almost passes for a sob, but the second is unmistakably a sound of illness.  Peter vomits hard, bringing up acid and thick, putrid fluid, evidence of the toll adrenaline’s already taken on his digestive system.

There aren’t any air sickness bags.  There’s rarely a need for them, and no industry standard forces their presence.  Peter retches into his lap before he leans forward and continues to heave over the floor.

“Ok, it’s ok,” Steve intones.  He wraps one arm around Peter’s chest to keep his clammy forehead from bouncing off the seat in front of him.  He doesn’t care about the warmth of bile seeping through his sleeve.  It’s messy, but it feels like progress.

“You’re gonna be fine.  It’s gonna pass.”  Steve gives the kid a pat on the back.  Peter hiccups.  He dry heaves one final time, then makes a pathetic sputtering sound.  He sits up weakly and wipes his mouth.

“I’m…” Peter chokes.  Spit and tears shine on his chin.  “I’m s—”

“Shh.  It’s ok.”  Steve doesn’t want to hear him say it.  He doesn’t want the kid to be sorry.  He doesn’t want him to have to worry about anything ever again, but that’s not feasible.  The least he can do is keep him from feeling bad about the mess.

Something flutters in Steve’s peripheral vision.  A paper towel.  Steve grabs it without looking at who’s offering.  He gives Peter’s face a good wipe before letting him shakily latch onto it along with a shred of dignity.

“I have Zofran,” Tony’s voice says.  Steve looks over his shoulder at him, still decked out in is Iron Man suit and rummaging in the first-aid kit.  “Tranqs, too, but I don’t know if, you know, a nap would help…”  Worry edges out the sheepishness on his face, but Steve feels bad for him again.  He’s just doing his best, addressing the problems he can see with the tools in his reach.

It’s unusual for Tony to defer to Steve.  Even more so for Steve to defer to someone else.  But he can’t make this call.  “What do you think?” he asks Peter.  “You want to take something for your stomach?  Or something to help you relax?”

Peter slowly shakes his head.  “I…  I think I’ll just ride it out,” he whispers.

“Ok.”  Steve nods.  He glances at Tony.  “We can do that.”

Tony looks at Steve.  Then back to Peter.  He closes the first-aid kit.  “Yeah,” he says.  “We can do that.”


End file.
